Fantasy
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: The best things in life are always worth paying for, no matter how steep their price. -Follows the end of season II. CielxLizzie, SebaCiel-


**Disclaimer: **Still nothing.

**Author's Note: **Another fic inspired by conversations with Amanuensis.

**Warnings: **Follows the end of season II. Character death. Underaged sex. OOCness? CielxLizzie and SebaxCiel.

**XXX**

**Fantasies**

**X**

_When they tell Lady Elizabeth, she goes very still. She goes to the garden. She stays there until nightfall. Then she gets in her carriage and goes home. She does not speak to anyone for three days._

On the fourth day, an hour before dawn, she walks out onto the Middleford grounds and pushes her face into a dew-covered spiderweb. "Is there a fairy out there?" she croaks in a voice three days hoarse from disuse. "I have a wish."

~"Epilogues and Beginnings"

_Amanuensis_

**X**

**XXX**

He does not have a choice. He hears her voice as if it were his own, echoing in the back of his brain: husky plea thick with desires and needs and longings, fingers twining around the spiders' threads that she already holds in her hands. Metaphysical, metaphorical, literal, corporeal; the call of her soul is to him as tangible as the red thread of fate, binding them like the ribbons she wears in her mussed hair. The summons tugs upon his core with a painful insistence, and he is too young to resist.

He appears before her without sound, without flare; she lifts her head and there he is— a monochrome vision in a garden of rainbow roses.

The girl falls to her quaking knees.

"…I knew it," is all she can say, and her nails grind deep into dirt and wet grass. "I_ knew _it_…_"

Ciel has no response. Not to this, anyway. Instead, he plucks a dewy rosebud from a bush with black-tipped fingers. He smells it, admires it, appreciates its pallor, and then— with an ethereal grace— places the blossom behind Elizabeth's petite ear. Despite his care, one of its pointed thorns catches against the skin of her temple, drawing a ruby bead of blood; she flinches, as much from pain as from his closeness.

Her reaction does not escape the devil's notice, and the once-boy cannot hide his bitter smile. But he tries all the same, bending low, lips brushing against the wound as he whispers ever-so-sweetly:

"Is it thy wish to form a Contract with me?"

**X**

"You must think that I'm horribly spoiled."

"And why would you say that?"

"I've grown up wanting for nothing… and then, when I realized there was something that I couldn't have, I…"

"…"

"…it was a childish thing to do, wasn't it."

"It was a _human_ thing to d—"

"_Don't phrase it like that_."

"Why not?"

"Be… because it… because when you… Because I…"

"…"

"…can't you… can't you just pretend that…?"

"Even for my mistress, I cannot be what I'm not."

"…I'm spoiled, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are. But then, so am I."

**X**

Elizabeth Middleford has but a single wish— since the sunny days of her youth, no dreams but one. And though she realizes that she is not strong, not smart, not special in any discernable way… she doesn't think that one, simple dream is too much to ask from life.

So when she had been denied…

Ciel flutters thick coal lashes, like a butterfly alighting upon a petal. And he is just as lovely as such: previously pale skin now porcelain-perfect, features as beautiful as a Grecian statue. Dressed in shadows and lace and satin, like a corpse before its funeral, he stands facing his fiancé just as he had one week prior— holding her close as they danced.

"…those are your only terms?" he questions quietly, tranquil gaze flickering from rounded-blue cobalt to waning-moon crimson and back again with each lazy bat of his lids.

The little girl's response is a weak nod. After all that she has been though, she lacks even the strength to speak.

"It does not have to be right away, you know. We could wait—"

He is interrupted by the violent shaking of a pigtailed head, blonde curls bouncing as green eyes fill with terrified tears, clearly horrified by the thought. She'd long-since had her fill of waiting… and who knew what might happen if she stalled any longer?

"As you wish," Ciel murmurs, tilting forward into a polite bow. He'd done the same when they'd finished their final waltz; she can still feel the heat of his hands wrapped around her own, the pressure of his palm placed in the small of her back… It takes her a moment to realize that the intensity of the sensation stems from the fact that he is holding her again, exactly as he had before. "In that case…"

Elizabeth trembles in his arms, torn between dread and delight and the desire to scream for so many reasons…

"…would you marry me, my lady?"

**X**

"I cannot enter the church."

"I know."

"I cannot properly swear to the vows."

"I know."

"I cannot allow myself to be seen by any of our friends or family."

"I know."

"Then how can I fulfill my charge?"

"…I don't… I don't _need_ any of the pomp."

"No?"

"No. Once upon a time, I guess it would have been nice, but... but now. Now, all I need is _you_."

"We are not speaking of 'need.' We are speaking of 'want.'"

"All I _want _is you."

"In what way?"

"In all ways. Every way. I want to hold hellfire until I am nothing more than ash."

"…as you wish."

**X**

She clothes herself in her finest silk nightgown, twining a pink velvet sash around her waist. One of her many pale petticoats probably would have been more appropriate, she muses, but it hardly seems worth the effort to dress in one. She will soon be lying down to sleep, after all. This will do.

And she is rewarded for her selection, despite its simplicity; Ciel grins when he sees her, sapphire stare bright with enchantment and tacit, tender laughter. In his chuckles, she can hear shared memories. And yes, she, too, is reminded of their long-past childhood: of countless hours spent playing dress-up and pretend; of games of house and husband and wife and baby, cradling a china doll named Bethany. It is a dream from yesteryear that they revisit today— a ritual that begins, as always, with Ciel detaching her window's lace curtain, and draping the doily design ever-so-lightly atop her small head.

"You forget your veil," he teases softly, and Lizzie isn't sure if she wants to giggle or weep.

Her bedroom is full of stardust and moonlight, and the mundane world is transformed into a fairy paradise in the wake of those silvery indigo beams. Portraits and stuffed animals pay silent witness to the couple, framed by the glow of the heavens; in her dusty mahogany cradle, a long-worn Bethany plays the role of minister.

"…will you, Elizabeth Middleford, take Ciel Phantomhive to be your lawfully wedded husband?" the devil whispers, and the girl tries not to think about how little the name seems to mean to him— as if he lost himself along with his humanity. "To have and to hold for all the days of your life?"

He pauses, he waits. He foresees hesitation. But she, for once, defies his expectations of her.

"I do," Lizzie promises, and even _she_ is startled by the conviction in her tone. Yet, at the same time, she is not surprised: the best things in life are always well-worth paying for, no matter how steep their price. Dresses from London, jewels from Africa, furniture from Turkey, sweets from France… And Ciel, her beloved Ciel, from the deepest depths of Hell. Yes… in her eyes, Ciel is worth more than the world— certainly he is worth more than her soul.

His hold on her hand tightens, as if in anticipation.

Lizzie swallows. Her pretty mouth opens.

…and she finds that she can't say the words in return. They taste sour in her mouth, like old milk and lies; like answers that she already knows, but doesn't want to consciously acknowledge. And in that instant, she realizes that the question called for isn't the one that she truly wishes to pose.

She blinks once, startled. Resets her lovely face, so that Ciel isn't forced to witness the flash of agony that cracks her brittle, happy mask. And then, moistened irises sparkling like the finest-cut emeralds, Elizabeth asks her fiancée what she really yearns to know— voice quavering, desperate, and fearful (for all of the wrong reasons).

"Will you have me, Ciel?"

The innocent query makes him smile. And her prize for amusing him is the delicate dance of lacquered fingers against the apple of her cheeks, tilting her lowered chin upward.

"I will," Ciel murmurs.

And then he kisses her— gently— kisses her— deeply— kisses her— roughly, and her hands twine in the frill of his ascot, and his hands knot in the gauze of her gown, and she can taste chocolate and caramel and darkness and sin as their arms and legs tangle and they fall, trippingly, back against her bed…

**X**

"…this is it, isn't it."

"Yes."

"I see…"

"Was it… worth it?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"…you have always been too kind."

"No more so than you."

"…"

"…will it hurt?"

"A little. I will try to be gentle, but—"

"No."

"…no?"

"No. I told you, didn't I? I want to hold hellfire until I am nothing more than ash. Turn me into ash, Ciel."

"Lizzie…"

"I know this may sound strange to you— you may not be able to understand, but… But if it's you, Ciel, if it's _for _you, then I don't mind pain. I don't mind dying."

"…I understand."

**X**

"There you are. I have been looking for you."

In the bedroom's gilded corners, the gloom has begun to coagulate: an aura of feathery blackness blots out starlight and moonglow and all things bright. Ciel does not turn to greet his companion— rather, he stands as still as stone beside the four-poster, vermillion eyes locked upon the cooling countenance of his bride. She wears a crocheted veil and a peaceful smile, and the flavor of strawberries lingers on his tongue.

Pin-heeled boots echo soundlessly against the wooden floorboards as Sebastian sidles over; he, too, regards the pretty corpse, and a hum of surprise catches in the back of his throat. The fledgling does not flinch when a taloned hand drops upon his shoulder, nor when an angled chin falls to rest against his downy crown… but he does curl conspicuously closer when a free arm wraps around his middle, and he is quick to drink in the comfort that it offers.

"…is it…" Ciel swallows roughly, voice raspy with the tears he cannot bring himself to cry. "Is it always this painful?"

Sebastian's embrace tightens a fraction; his own gaze flashes like garnets. But when he speaks, his voice is a soothing purr, a familiar warmth against his master's ear… and the equally-familiar tickle of velveteen lips, of silk-smooth forelocks, makes everything so much better and, simultaneously, so much worse.

"Only when you care."

The demonling snorts, contemptuous and cold. "I can see why you try so hard not to, then," he mumbles, finally forcing himself to look away from the cadaver. Ciel hadn't thought he had a heart anymore, but from the way his chest is aching… Sebastian murmurs his encouragement when the boy turns his head, the hand on his shoulder moving to run through rumpled bangs and cover tired eyes.

"It is often worth the extra effort," the butler admits, breathing his agreement against the base of the child's china throat.

It makes the fledgling pause.

For while anyone else would have let the proclamation stand without comment, Ciel knows better; he has long-since mastered the interpretation of inflection, as well as the art of phrasing and word choice. He pulls away just-slightly, his expression a mixture of curiosity and humor as he casts the elder devil an inquiring stare.

"'Often'?" the younger then echoes, a mocking sort of incredulity creeping into his casual drawl. "Not 'always'?"

His servant's retort is a strangely familiar smile… and the sight of it sends another surge of pain to his heart-place, but of a different sort; a phantom nostalgia, warm with feelings that frighten. It reminds Ciel of half-forgotten memories: of caressing hands and rough stone benches— of consent and acceptance and the sight of descending lips…

And again, those lips descend, and again, he offers himself up to them. And again. And again. And again, and again, and again, and on into forever— for as long as they both shall live. Tongue, arms, fingers, legs, shadows curl and coil in the darkness, yank-pull-tug-grinding until it is near-impossible to tell where one demon ends and the other begins. Until they've formed a single, pulsing, yearning, wanton whole.

And when Sebastian finally whispers— into his little lover's mouth, ears, flesh, _soul_— "No. Not always..." Ciel, again, understands.

**XXX**


End file.
